Top 10 Attractions
by Mousme
Summary: Part 18 of the Fusion 'verse. Dean gets sick and runs Sam ragged, but Sam finds he doesn't actually mind all that much.


Title: **Top 10 Attractions**

Summary: Part of the **Fusion** 'verse. Dean gets sick and runs Sam ragged, but Sam finds he doesn't actually mind all that much.

Original Prompts: Written for the feverish!Dean comment-fic meme being held over at **hoodie_time**. This is a fusion (heh, see what I did there?) of two prompts. One by **roque_clasique** and the other by **de_nugis**. **roque_clasique** wanted a permanently-injured Dean who kind of forgets that his injury is permanent when he runs a fever, and **de_nugis** requested a Dean who gets hyper when fever strikes.

Characters: Sam, Dean, Perry

Rating: PG-13

Wordcount: 2,588

Disclaimer: After the past few days, I think the boys are grateful that they don't actually belong to me...

Warnings: Unabashed h/c. Schmoop.

Neurotic Author's Note #1: Yeah, I know, I just posted a Fusion update yesterday. But then there was a comment-fic meme, and **roque_clasique** and **de_nugis** posted these delicious prompts, and... yeah. How is this even my life? IDEK.

Neurotic Author's Note #2: I'm also having fun with actually cutting Sam some slack lately. Fans of Sam!whump, I am sorry, but I promise to mend my ways soon. ;)

Neurotic Author's Note #3: Set right after The Only Easy Day.

Neurotic Author's Note #4: Unbeta'd, etc. You know the drill.

* * *

There's a muffled thump from the bedroom upstairs, startling Sam where he was just beginning to doze off on the sofa in front of the television. Perry's ears perk up, but she doesn't move from where she was draped across his chest, panting happily as he petted her. Normally she'd be with Dean, but with Dean asleep she'd settled for the slightly-less-adequate pats that Sam is always willing to provide. The thump means that Dean isn't asleep anymore, and Sam sighs.

"Looks like Sleeping Beauty is up," he tells Perry, who takes that as her cue to scramble to the floor, planting one paw firmly on what feels like Sam's spleen. "Oof! God, you're worse with the personal space thing than Dean is," he complains good-naturedly, following her up the stairs.

He finds Dean sitting on the floor next to his bed, hair mussed, expression utterly bewildered. It would be cute if it weren't so damned sad. His undershirt and boxers are damp with sweat, his right leg stretched out its entire length, revealing the cross-hatch of surgical scars and the myriad other scars acquired through years of hunting. He looks up when he hears Sam come in, eyes bright and unfocussed.

"Hey, Sammy. I dunno what happened. I think I fell... Hey, sweetheart," he laughs a little vaguely when Perry licks his face, reaches up to scratch behind her ears.

Sam drops to a crouch next to him and presses the palm of his left hand to Dean's forehead, nudging Perry aside with his hip. "Yeah, your fever's worse. Why were you even trying to get up? Come on," he pulls his brother up carefully, hands under his armpits, and sits him back down on the bed. The cast barely impedes his movements anymore, for which he's grateful. If all goes well, it'll come off in a couple of weeks, maybe earlier. "You need to go back to bed. Did you need anything else?"

Dean shakes his head. "No, I was getting up," he says a little petulantly, then attempts to demonstrate by trying to get back to his feet, only to pitch right back into Sam's arm. "The hell's wrong with my leg?"

Sam pushes him back onto the bed. "It doesn't bend anymore, remember? Come on, go back to bed."

"I'm not tired," Dean protests, and Sam sighs.

The thing is, Dean has always been like this. He's got a pretty good immune system generally speaking, but when he does get sick, he tends to spike fevers that run them both ragged. It's been well over a year since his first flirtation with the flu after they settled down, and Sam thinks they got lucky, overall. His own six-month battle waged against strep was no one's idea of fun, but Dean is better able to cope with him being ill than when it's the other way around. At least now they have a plan in place, which means that Dean will be looked after even if Sam has a bad day. Or a bad week, for that matter.

Right now, Sam is fine. Well, mostly fine. He hasn't ventured out of the house since Dean got sick in the wee hours of the morning, but that's just fine by him. He called the store, talked to Sophie, and everything's fine. Well, fine except for Dean's fever getting worse by the hour, in spite of the water and Tylenol and TheraFlu that Sam's been pouring down his throat at regular intervals. There's not much else he can do. He let Perry out into the yard, promising her the longest walk in the history of ever once Dean is feeling better, made lunch for himself, took his pills on schedule, and tried not to worry when Dean's fever stepped over the threshold from 'mild' to 'serious.' Sam is fine, he's fine as long as all he needs to deal with is Dean and his flu and making sure Perry doesn't have an accident in the house.

The main challenge, of course, is to keep Dean in bed. At least this time he's not convinced that Sam is their father or that he's living through the yet-to-be-written sequels to the Star Wars movies. That being said, he's being just as much of a pain in Sam's ass as ever. Ever since they were teenagers, it's always been the same story when Dean gets a fever: he doesn't go down like a normal person, no. No, Dean gets like a hyperactive four-year-old on a sugar high, always wanting to go places and do things when what he really needs is to lie down and sleep. This time is no exception. Dean is already trying to get up again, but much like last time he hasn't quite figured out that his leg doesn't work the way he remembers it working, and Sam has to brace him with a hand to his chest before he faceplants right back into the carpet.

"Easy, Dean. You're going to hurt yourself."

Dean thumps him on the shoulder. "I got this, Sammy. We should go out. You know, celebrate. Tell you what, first round's on me."

"I don't drink anymore, Dean."

That gets him a disbelieving stare —quite the feat given how glassy-eyed his brother is. "Don't drink anymore," he scoffs. "You going all," Dean waves a hand vaguely, "temperance movement on me, Sammy? 's okay, you know. I promise I won't drink too much. Or hey!" he beams. "We're in Wisconsin, right? We should go see the sunfish. Sunny. You know, the big statue that's, like, the goodwill ambassador for that little town... what's it called?"

"We're not in Wisconsin," Sam rolls his eyes, and wonders just how Dean has managed to retain every single bit of trivia from every single roadside attraction that they've ever encountered in their whole lives. He's always suspected that Dean has a photographic memory, and these little episodes only serve to confirm that. He rubs Dean's back when he starts coughing, this time manages to get him to lie back down. "I'll bring you some water and some more Tylenol, okay? Your throat hurt?"

"Nothing beer wouldn't cure," Dean turns on his side to face him, expression hopeful, and it's all Sam can do not to laugh, because Dean kind of looks like a kid like that, begging to be allowed to stay up late.

"Stay put," he says, wagging a finger pointedly. "I will be right back."

It's too much to hope for. Sam is fishing the bottle of Tylenol out of the medicine cabinet when he hears another all-too-familiar thump from the bedroom, followed by a quiet curse and a distraught whine from Perry.

"Aw, don't be sad, baby girl," Sam hears Dean croon to the dog as he hurries back. "I'm not hurt. I just kind of... yeah, I'm not sure what happened, but maybe —hey, Sammy!" he looks up from where he's lying on the floor, expression beatific. "We going out?"

Sam sets the Tylenol and the glass of water he brought on the night stand, then hauls Dean back up onto the bed. "Nope. You're going to take more Tylenol and sleep. Did you hurt yourself?" It doesn't look like he has, but you can never be too careful.

"Killjoy," Dean mutters. "We should go out. It's been a really long time since we just went out, you and me and a couple of beers and no laptop. You've always got your nose buried in that thing, it's like you don't want to talk to me anymore."

Sam bites his lip, reaches out to smooth Dean's hair away from his forehead. He wears it a little longer these days, even puts up with Sam's teasing that he's only doing it to disguise an encroaching case of male pattern baldness. "That was a long time ago, Dean." Hundreds of years. "We're not hunting anymore, remember? No research, no laptop."

Dean nods, but his expression is still befuddled. "Yeah, right. Right, sure Sammy. I just forgot, is all." He coughs, forces himself up onto his elbows, and twists away when Sam tries to coax the water and the Tylenol into him. There's a brief struggle before he submits grudgingly, swallows, and then continues his thought uninterrupted. "But we should go. Hey, did we ever get around to the largest ball of twine? We should totally go see that, I bet it's awesome."

"Sure," Sam promises recklessly. "Next time we're in Minnesota, we can stop and take a look."

"We should go now," Dean takes him up a little too literally on the offer, manages to get his good leg off the side of the bed, bats irritably at Sam's hands when he tries to stop him. "Get off, Sam. Not a damn invalid. Whoa..." he lists dangerously to one side, flails a little, and actually manages to stagger upright. "The hell's wrong with my leg?" He looks down, frowning, flexes his foot.

"You had surgery on it," Sam reminds him for what feels like the fiftieth time today. Perry gets up from where she was lying by the foot of the bed and paces a little, whining softly. "You got your knee fused last year, remember? Long time ago."

"Right. Right, yeah. Sure, Sammy," Dean nods, takes a tentative step toward the door, good leg wobbling a little. Sam catches him by the elbow.

"Dean, please. Please just go back to bed. Do it for me, okay?"

Dean nods, but he doesn't move. He pats Sam's arm instead. "You doing okay Sammy?"

"I'm fine, it's a good day. Been a good week, actually. I'm doing just fine, Dean," he repeats, "but I'd be better if you were in bed, resting, the way you're supposed to."

That gets him another pat on the arm. "Been in bed all day. It's boring. C'mon, don't be a bitchy stick in the mud, lemme take you out, okay? It'll be fun."

Dean grins, all boyish enthusiasm, and Sam will be damned if it's not kind of endearing, even if his brother is half out of his mind with fever and keeps dripping sweat onto him and doesn't have a single solitary idea what year it is, let alone what day. Sam remembers having a similar conversation, a very long time ago, when what Dean is saying was true. They spent far too much time apart, all those years. Now Dean has laugh lines around his eyes. Sam takes the two steps separating him from his brother, wraps an arm around his shoulders, feeling heat seeping through his own t-shirt, then brings up a hand to feel his forehead again as Dean nearly bends double in a fit of coughing.

"Oh, yeah, a barrel of laughs, I can see it now," he teases gently. "Especially when we pick your lungs up out of the gutter when you cough them out. I have a better idea. Something even more fun. You want to do that instead?"

Dean squints suspiciously at him. "It doesn't involve me going back to bed, does it?"

"No, I promise. Scout's honour. Come on downstairs, okay? I'll help you."

"What are we doing?" Dean asks vaguely, leaning a little harder on him, Perry following a few steps behind them.

"Right now, we're going down the stairs," Sam adjusts his grip so Dean can take the steps one at a time, easing himself stiffly down, bad leg first, gingerly bending his good knee and holding onto Sam's t-shirt with a death grip that he wouldn't allow himself if he were in his right mind. "Then we're going to the living room, and then we're going to have ice cream."

Dean stops mid-step and looks up with a delighted expression. "Ice cream?"

"Sure. You like ice cream, I like ice cream, it'll feel good on your throat. I bet it's still sore, right?"

"It's fine."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Sure, it's fine. Okay, come on, we're nearly there. You want your chair or the couch?"

"We watching a movie?"

"We can watch a movie," Sam agrees easily. Movies and ice cream are infinitely preferable to having Dean try out his Houdini act every fifteen minutes.

"Couch, then. Is there beer?"

"There's ice cream," Sam reminds him, hoping it'll distract him long enough to get his mind off the beer. "Sit," he nudges Dean's hip, moves him until he half-sits, half-falls onto the couch with a sigh of expelled air from the cushions, then drops the throw blanket over his shoulders. "I'll be right back. Don't get up. I mean it."

It only takes a few minutes to serve up vanilla ice cream in two bowls with chocolate syrup from the fridge. Sam grabs the electric kettle he switched on earlier and pours the boiling water into two mugs with tea bags, adds just enough milk for Dean and none for himself. Dean will bitch just out of principle, but Sam knows he's taken pretty well to tea-drinking, for a guy who once pronounced it 'undrinkable girly shit.' He contemplates bringing it all in as is, then thinks better of it and loads up a tray. By the time he gets back Dean is halfway slumped on the sofa, bad leg stretched out on the cushions, but he makes an uncoordinated attempt to sit up again until Sam waves him back.

"I put in the third _Die Hard_. You mind?"

Sam shakes his head, puts down the tray. At least Dean's little bout of wanderlust seems to have abated for now. He reaches over to switch on the movie, interrupting the loop of music of the main menu, then hands Dean a bowl of ice cream before settling down next to him on the sofa. Dean wriggles a bit until he's leaning with his back against Sam's shoulder and digs into his ice cream with a moan of pleasure that's almost obscene.

"Way better than going for beer," he says, words muffled by the ice cream, then coughs into his elbow. "Shit, I hope you don't get this. Sucks."

"I'll be fine. I made you tea."

"Yeah, I saw. Dunno why you insist on making that crap."

"Because you like it. And it's good for your throat."

Dean hums noncommittally, but he reaches for the steaming mug, and for a while they both watch in silence as Samuel L. Jackson steals every scene he's in. Sam takes a bite of his ice cream, reaches over to tuck the throw blanket more securely around Dean, who's still sweating and feels shaky against him. After a few minutes he rescues the half-finished bowl of ice cream before it drops, moves aside the empty tea mug, turns his head to look at his brother. Dean's half-asleep, lying on his side now and propped against Sam's shoulder, head nestled just under Sam's arm. Perry is sprawled over his legs, looking blissful with her eyes closed, and Sam can't bring himself to wake either of them, not just yet.

"We should go to the Grand Canyon," Dean murmurs into his shoulder.

The movie won't be over for another forty-five minutes at least. Sam brings up his hand and idly strokes Dean's hair, careless of the fact that it's still damp with sweat. "Good idea," he says softly. "Tell you what. When you're better, you can plan the road trip. Sound good?"

Dean shifts closer with something Sam thinks is meant to be a nod, and lets out a contented sigh. "Yeah. Sounds good."


End file.
